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Isn’t this meant to be a butcher shop? The tables with crisp linen at the entrance indicate otherwise. Where are the chops, shanks and steaks? Confusion is quickly cleared up as staff in white jackets recite the day’s rare cuts of beef.

Victor Churchill straddles the retail-restaurant divide and offers the best of both. Wagyu rib-eye cap is taken for a dance over flames until its crust is craggy, while its centre’s soft as silk pyjamas. The menu detours to plump prawns with perky Marie Rose sauce, and barely charred calamari in romesco. But they’re sideshows.

You’re here for the steak, all eight choices covering grain- and grass-fed, primitive and petite. Watch staff mix crystalline martinis and decant half-bottles of barolo behind a marble-topped bar as you lose yourself in the hall of mirrors.